


Ataraxis

by anastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Episode: s14e10 Nihilism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 14, Self-Hatred, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 15:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17470199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anastiel/pseuds/anastiel
Summary: “Dean,” Sam says, and he says it the way he has a thousand times when Dean’s been in danger. Except this time there’s no monster after him, at least not physically, just the egotistical archangel in his head.Sam is instantly at his side, kneeling next to the bed, forehead crinkled in worry. His palms ghost over Dean’s arms and shoulders, eyes darting over Dean’s face. He’s checking on autopilot, as they always have when one of them is injured, just like he did a few hours ago.





	Ataraxis

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Cherie for reading through this for me. :)
> 
> Ataraxis - the absence of mental stress or anxiety.

_“Monsters are always hungry, darling,_

_and they're only a few steps behind you, finding_

_the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't_

_stitched up quite right, the place they could almost_

_slip right into through if the skin wasn't trying to_

_keep them out, to keep them here...” - Snow and Dirty Rain by Richard Siken_

 

It takes a few hours, but eventually Michael does stop screaming. Instead, he resorts to pacing around in Dean’s head. His shoes snapping, keeping time with the beat of Dean’s heart, against the cement floor of the walk-in. Occasionally, just to be an asshole, he chucks some object against the door. Dean cringes, pressing his palms flat against his ears as the echo reverbs back like a faulty microphone. He collapses onto his bed, curling in on his side as his ears start to ache from the constant onslaught of the past few hours.

Maybe this was a mistake.

 _I will make you regret this, Dean,_ Michael sneers from inside him, tossing what sounds like a keg at the door. He chuckles in Dean’s own voice when Dean winces as the two metals clang together creating a new chorus of ringing in his ears.

It’s like the worst kind of nightmare, having an archangel trapped in your brain.

Dean is exhausted, every bone in his body aches, every muscle straining and drained from keeping Michael in. He needs to sleep, but part of him is terrified that the moment he lets his guard down, that precious wall he’s keeping up will come tumbling down and let Michael out along with it.

He can’t stay awake forever, he _will_ die then, and then Michael will bring his body back just to use him to destroy the world. It’s a losing situation no matter which way you dice it.

Dean focuses on his breathing, sucking in deep breaths through his nose and releasing them out through his mouth. He grabs a spare pillow from behind his head and squeezes it between his arms, burying his nose in the plush softness of it. He feels the tears slipping down his cheeks before he realizes he’s crying. It’s refreshing in a way, the wash of emotion that rushes through him as his own, not Michael’s rage. He lets himself cry in a way he usually doesn’t until the pillowcase pressed against his cheek is damp.

There’s a soft knock on the door that breaks him out of his own haze and a quiet, “Dean?”

It’s Sam.

Dean sniffles, wiping at his nose with his sleeve and eyes the door. There’s a gap of silence, but then he hears the scuff of shoes on the floor, knows Sam is debating on whether he should just barge in or wait.

“Can I come in?” Sam asks, worry evident in his voice.

Not that Dean can blame him, he has been pretty absent since this whole thing went down. Dean needed to be away from everyone immediately after regaining his body. He felt restless, skin pricking with unease at being back but still having a foreign entity inside him. His body was overwhelmed with the change in presence and the myriad of assaults Michael was throwing at him to try and get him to break.

He needed quiet.

“Yeah,” Dean croaks, voice strained.

The door clicks open and Sam peeks his head around the corner.

“Dean,” Sam says, and he says it the way he has a thousand times when Dean’s been in danger. Except this time there’s no monster after him, at least not physically, just the egotistical archangel in his head.

Sam is instantly at his side, kneeling next to the bed, forehead crinkled in worry. His palms ghost over Dean’s arms and shoulders, eyes darting over Dean’s face. He’s checking on autopilot, as they always have when one of them is injured, just like he did a few hours ago.  

_Ah yes, burden numero uno. So neeeeeeedy. You’ve always taken care of him, but he never learned how to take care of you._

Dean doesn’t reply, not bothering to entertain Michael with an answer to that bullshit. He focuses on the butterfly soft brush of Sam’s fingers on his wrist.

“Are you okay?” he asks, fingers finding Dean’s pulse point and staying there.

Dean doesn’t bother lying, just shakes his head no, and fights back the sudden rush of a sob that threatens to claw its way out of his throat.

A pained whine leaves his throat instead, and Sam frowns, moving closer and tightening his grip on Dean’s wrist.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Sam moves his other hand, sliding it up and stroking his fingers through the short strands of Dean’s hair.  

“Can you still hear him?” Sam asks.

_You know he’s only doing this because he thinks you’re weak, right? No one actually gives a shit about you, Dean._

“Yeah, he’s a real chatty Cathy,” Dean manages to get out.

“Don’t listen to him. Look at me, okay?” Sam says.

Sam presses their foreheads together, keeps a hand wrapped around Dean’s wrist, the other in his hair right above the curve of his ear.

“Close your eyes and breathe with me.”

Dean doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t need to. He can already feel the tightness in his muscles loosening the longer Sam touches him.

He lets his eyes shut, reaches up to grab Sam's biceps with shaky hands, and clings.

Sam sucks in a deep breath and Dean matches him. They exhale together, and Dean focuses on listening to Sam breathe. His breath puffs warm against Dean’s cheek, the tip of his nose brushing Dean’s. His hands are soft and warm where they’re touching Dean; Sam is so close and entirely not close enough.

Dean trusts Sam to know what he needs right now, Dean’s not sure himself, not sure of anything really but Sam’s always had a habit of being able to bring him back in a way no one else can. They sync without Dean trying, and tension drains out of him. Michael and his words and his banging around fade to the barest whisper in his head, muddled and incoherent, like a train horn echoing in the distance.

Dean isn’t sure how long they stay like that, but he’s brought back to his room when Sam starts dragging his palm through Dean’s hair again.

“How do you feel?” Sam asks.

“Better,” Dean answers. He slowly blinks his eyes open, readjusting to the light from the lamp and is momentarily overwhelmed at how close Sam is.

“And Michael?” Sam moves back, only a few inches so he can look at Dean properly.

“Not gone, but definitely quieter.”

“Good,” Sam says, and he’s smiling the barest hint of one. It’s a win to him though, and that’s all that matters.

“Do you want to try and sleep?” Sam asks.

“I should, yeah.”

“I’m sure you need it.”

Dean’s never been good about asking for Sam when he needs him, but there’s an anxious tug in his chest at the thought of Sam leaving him alone that settles sour in his stomach. He’s not sure what his mind will spiral into if he’s left to his own devices until the morning.

“Hey Sam, can you stay?”

Sam looks at him, considers, and nods once, seemingly surprised that Dean actually asked. Dean is surprised himself, honestly. Sam loosens his grip on Dean’s wrist and slides his palm down until their hands are joined and slots their fingers together.

“Yeah of course I can. What do you need?”

Dean shrugs, “Just... want you here.”

“I can do that.”

Sam pulls back, just slightly and rises up, pressing his mouth in a chaste kiss on the top of Dean’s forehead. Dean feels a rush of love for Sam surge through him, so strong it almost sends him reeling.

“I’m going to let go for a minute so I can take off my shoes. Is that okay?” Sam asks, squeezing Dean’s hand.

“Yeah,” Dean replies. He squeezes Sam’s hand back to let him know he’s okay.

Sam releases him slow, and then stands up. Dean instantly misses his warmth but uses the time while Sam takes off his shoes to move around in bed, pulling the comforter up around his shoulders. He rolls over onto his side, watching with drooping eyes as Sam climbs in across from him. His hands immediately go to Dean’s waist and he moves closer, tangling their legs together. Dean used to joke when they were kids that Sam was a clingy octopus. Dean would always wake up in the mornings with Sam tangled around him and snoring right into his ear. Things have not changed as they’ve gotten older.

Sam settles in, and Dean turns so his back is pressed up against Sam’s chest. Sam’s arms wrap around his middle and he clasps his hands, holding Dean tight. Dean sighs out, and relaxes into the warmth of Sam enveloping him, his breath tickling the back of Dean’s neck.

“You good?” Sam asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“s’great, Sammy, yeah.”

“Good. Wake me up if Michael comes back sometime during the night okay? I got you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean’s not quite sure how to reply to that, too many things that he can’t articulate or say thank you for. He scoots back further into Sam’s embrace, until he’s surrounded by nothing but Sam. He rests his palms on Sam’s forearms, where they’re wrapped around him, and holds on tight.


End file.
